Word: whiningly
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...curve through the logged-off land, over the pitted roads, the fallers, buckers, choker setters, whistle punks hurry to the cities or for a visit home. This is the period, long or short, depending on business and weather, of the Christmas shutdown. In many a mill town the rising whine of the headsaw biting into a log dies away; the absence of the pulsing rhythm of a sawmill-compounded of the piercing wing-wing of the trimmer, of the throb of the conveyors, of the thud of lumber falling on transfer chains-makes every day seem like Sunday. The noon...
Wenches with warts want Willkie. Wampum wardens won't wager Willkie will win. Wealthy werewolves whine, wheedle whimsical, wily words. Winsome Willkie's worried wretches watch wonderingly while Wendell's wide wagon wabbles, wavers, wriggles weakly, weirdly wrecks. Willkie's wailing, wild words won't worry worthy workers, wives, widows, workless. Whooping windbag, Willkie wallops will-o'-wisps. Workingmen want work. Wayfarers, watchmen: warn wireless "Willkie...
Suppose you got on the Mass. Avenue bus instead of going to Brattle Hall. You couldn't miss the Tech Roller Rink; the air is crowded with laughter, and the whine of skate wheels on wooden floor. At first your skates don't seem to go in the right direction; you stumble. Your hand reaches out to steady yourself, and finds another hand in it. Funny, you never think to ask Why. She is there, and that's all, skating with you. She has brown hair tied back with a ribbon and a trim green dress. You are both talking...
Superman comes on the air with a shrill, shrieking sound effect (combination of a high wind and a bomb whine, recorded in the Spanish war). Voices hail him with: "Up in the sky-look! It's a bird. . . . It's a plane. . . . It's SUPERMAN!" Superman or no superman, he has to watch his step on the radio. Mothers' clubs have their eyes on him, the Child Study Association of America feels that his occasional rocket & space ship jaunts are a bit too improbable. By radio's own war rules, he must remain neutral...
Richard Llewellyn is one more of those writers who love their common native speech and who use it with a sensuous efficiency which, in its verbal splendor, its folksy lilt and whine, approaches literary affectation. Yet in this, his first published novel (he has destroyed five), he has developed a hypnotic ability to do precisely what he pleases. His Morgans, those they live among, the country they inhabit, every incident, every reflection Huw Morgan ventures on the whole matter, have an even radiance and euphony plus a rock-bottom tangibility. If it be only would-be great How Green...